The Dance
by Amanda Rex
Summary: Set post-Flooded. Spike goes back to the crypt at the end of 'Flooded' and has a dream about being William. Includes implied unrequited romantic S/B.


* * *

The crypt seemed darker (and lonelier, he had to admit) than usual after leaving Buffy with her newly-drowned M'Fashnik. There was probably quite a bit more havoc a bloke could get himself into this evening yet—seemed there was always another demon who needed putting in his place—but Spike wanted none of it. 

The memory of being alone with her on the porch, he just couldn't let it go. She'd been a little restless, almost pacing as she'd shared just a scrap of her night with him. Spike had felt his body following, unbidden, each move she made, in some sort of absurd and ethereal dance with Buffy as the lead. 

The headiness of just having been near her had begun to take its toll. Feet heavy with fatigue, he found himself stumbling toward his still-new-enough-to-feel-like-a-luxury bed. He wanted so much to stay awake, replay the conversation a thousand times in his mind, but sleep overtook him. 

* * *

He wasn't quite sure how he'd managed it, but William, wonder of wonders, found himself moving, if stiffly, next to a perfectly lovely young lady as the lilting tones of a minuet accompanied them. 

Regrettably, the lady sharing the dance with him was not the lady he'd hoped would be. Nervously, furtively, his gaze settled on Cecily, dancing far away at the exact center of the dance floor. Where she belonged, he thought, where her beauty could radiate outward, effusing them all with its exquisite delicacy. 

As he shifted his focus to Cecily's partner, he stumbled a bit, gaining him a well-deserved look of exasperation from his partner. William could not recall the gentleman's name, but he had seen him at several parties before this one. Tall, handsome, impeccably dressed, and, William now noted, a graceful dancer. 

William further frustrated his own partner by turning the incorrect direction, which he remedied, but not before seeing the looks of disdain on the faces of several neighboring couples. 

Concentrate, William. What was that verse from Pope? He recalled it: 

"True ease in writing comes from art, not chance, As those move easiest who have learnt to dance." 

His piteous lack of grace would never deserve Cecily's attention. He redoubled his efforts to be a more pleasant partner for Lily, the woman who now looked as though she thoroughly regretted accepting William's invitation to dance. 

Listening more carefully to the music, William tried to gracefully glide first toward, then away, from Lily. Small, careful steps led them in incessant turns this way and that. Despite his best intentions, he found himself getting lost often. He hoped, foolishly, he had kept the better part of his confusion a secret, but Lily's wordless departure from his side at the end of the minuet certainly suggested otherwise. 

Hopefully, he looked again in Cecily's direction, and despaired at finding her surrounded by suitors asking, presumably, for the pleasure of her company in the next dance. 

William retreated to the outer walls of the room, filled with sadness as he realized he would spend yet another of these evenings watching his love dancing with nearly every gentleman at the party, save himself. His spirits had never been lower, for Cecily would never accept him as her partner for even a simple gavotte or courante, much less for the glorious entirety of her love and life. 

* * *

Spike stirred in his sleep, troubled and fitfully thrashing against the sheets. The frustration of his dream world seemed to spill into the darkness of the crypt, cruelly taunting his defenseless, pale form. 

* * *

William felt the cold wall against his back as it supported his weight. His torment, the sight of Cecily with yet another man who couldn't possibly love her as perfectly and purely as he himself did, had sapped the last of his strength. He truly felt his legs would buckle beneath him if he left the welcome solidity of the wall. 

"I am utterly undeserving of her favor," he whispered to himself, staring at the floor beneath his feet. It was but a moment later that a pale, but strong hand invaded his frame of vision, reaching for his own hand in return. 

"Would you share with me this pavane, now begun by the orchestra?" Her voice was achingly familiar to him. 

Shocked, his head jerked upward, wanting to put a face to the voice of his rescuer. But his vision had blurred; he couldn't quite make out the features of her face. 

He led her, nervously, to a shadowy corner of the dance floor. He willed his body and mind to cooperate in the graceful and majestic movements of the pavane, but it was, regrettably, a dance William had often found himself particularly hopeless to execute. He stumbled slightly, and felt color rising to his face. He didn't dare look in the direction of his mysterious partner. 

Her reaction to his misstep was not at all what he'd expected. He didn't feel the familiar, humiliating tug of his partner's arms, correcting his mistake, which he normally received from the few ladies who'd deigned to dance with him on evenings past. Neither, however, did he feel pressure of any kind from her. She continued the dance, allowing him to rejoin her as soon as he was able. 

Now, and for the first time without dwelling obsessively on his lack of grace, he found the steps coming more naturally. His arms straightened a bit from their customary embarrassed sag as he found his usually traitorous feet gliding from one correct step to another. 

The true test of his newfound confidence came at his next error, a particularly clumsy one. Again, his partner supported him only by continuing the dance, allowing him to correct himself and rejoin her when he was able. 

His eyes met hers in gratitude, and her face was clear to him for the first time. Her lovely. glowing skin surrounded by ringlets of blond hair, a gleam in her eye as she smiled reassuringly at him. 

It was Her. But he'd known, deep within himself, even before he'd stolen the glance. 

* * *

Lost in blissful sleep, Spike danced on. 

* * *

End 


End file.
